


High School

by Tizian23



Series: Fundamentally Yours [2]
Category: Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones
Genre: Band Fic, Boys Kissing, Coming Out, Crossing Parallels, Implied Sexual Content, Jealousy, Keith the Aloofness himself, Light BDSM, Little Jimmy, M/M, Multi, Pack Dynamics, Pre-Relationship, Recording, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, Roughhousing, Sexual Tension, Star-crossed, blurry lines between friendship and love, preZeppelinJimmy, record studio, very light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tizian23/pseuds/Tizian23
Summary: Jimmy gets a mysterious booking for a studio gig and learns a lot more than anticipated about how a very successful band really functions...and what goes on when no one watches. or everyone pretends to not watch.ok so... this is a two parter that grew out of a crossover drabble from my WritersMonth ZepFic collectionMocking Bird Wont Sing... Gonna Buy Him A Diamond Ring
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Brian Jones, Mick Jagger/Brian Jones
Series: Fundamentally Yours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014192
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	High School

**Author's Note:**

> This is about Jimmy before he was a aloof, pretty floof, sure of what he wants and how to get that -or whom to ask for it... so he watches and learns.  
> And the pretty pack boys are happy to be watched and teach him. 
> 
> Trigger warning shall be mentioned for what could be called roughly handling a totally willing partner. no scare or real threat is involved.

Mickey phoned late in the evening to remind me of tomorrows session. Mentioned it was someone important, who had expressed interest in my “little trick with the bow”. A soundtrack-job for a German movie. Supposed to be a bit psychedelic, yet upbeat and “groovy”. I proclaimed understanding, nodded my agreement even though he couldn’t see me on the telephone anyway. All the while wondering why this random session job would be so important that he calls to lecture me of all things on how to dress down (“ No brocade lace affair, you understand me, Page?”) and comment on my behaviour as well (“Try to take a backseat, hold your horses, don’t try to outshine him… you know what I mean.”) I reassured him I understood and would heed all advice while secretly guessing about the true nature of this.  
The next morning I packed my new white Telecaster and the bow, dressed for a funeral before spending an outrageous time on my hair. I had given up on trying to figure out what to make of it all. The IBC Studios were strangely buzzing with anticipation, all doors open, everybody flossed up to the nines chatting in doorways so I got tea and started tuning in Studio 3. Mickey ran in to give me a wordless one-over there in my armchair, nodding before disappearing again.

After a while it suddenly got deadly-quiet in the whole building. Like the eye of the hurricane had moved in on us. Two large bouncers walked by the open door, then two more. I took a sip of my tea, plucking the low E in rhythm with the light melodic click of cuban heels coming down the corridor to slip in the room next door. When I looked up again 10 minutes later a stocky roadie in plimsoles with an oddly shaped guitar case and music sheets in his hand walked in.

“ Here!” he interrupted me without a word of greeting or introduction, holding out the pile of paper in my direction. “He wants me to give this to you so you can go over it for a bit.“ 

“ Oh, sure! Thank you VERY much.” There was a hint of snark in that reply. I didn’t look at the bloke when I took the sheets. “ A Degree Of Murder” it said on the top page. I put it on my knee and leafed through it while stirring the sugar in my tea.

It’s written meticulously and carefully with green biro. The clear hand leaning to the left, flawless with small round letters and large underslopes. Not a single crossed out word, no lost note on the wrong line. I tried not to be impressed.  
Several voices are in the corridor. One of them quiet, deliberate and posh, like it has never been raised for a yell, a scream, to moan before. 

“ Yes, I am aware. I’ll think about it in case I find time later. .” A dismissal, if there ever was one. I was fiddling with the tetchy high E peg that tends to come loose when I heard someone walk into the room and close the door with a relieved huff.  
He is a lot smaller than he looks in the magazines. Wearing an off-white cashmere turtleneck and black dress trousers with a glossy silk stripe down the sides he is not dressed as the big star he really is. Unwinding a white scarf, he shakes out his trademark honey blond bob, rubs his neck and stretches his back in an undeniably sensual way. 

“ Are they always this keyed up here ? That must be frightfully exhausting to work with on the long run,” he wonders, moving away from the door that he had been leaning against. I hurry to put the guitar down but with a dismissal wave of his hand he drags a plastic chair from the wall over to where I am sitting in the only upholstered chair and drops into it. He meets my eyes and smiles.

“ Hi, I am Brian. Pleased to meet you.”

His hand is tiny, soft and tanned against mine. His eyes are uniquely dove blue, a dark ring enclosing the light of the iris. Cat ice on a deep lake. Photos do him no justice. He is very handsome, not to say pretty with his fine nose and the sharp, perfect bow of his mouth. The genuine smile that seems to come easy for me. Unexpected for someone who sings his voice is soft and he speaks very quietly, each word polished with a distinct upper class accent and a slight lisp that gets more pronounced after a few sentences which I thought was quite endearing. I had heard Mick sling around some very obviously put-on London Cockney that comes and goes all throughout the conversation and eventually makes room for a Mississippi chain gang twang when he sings. But Brians posh West Country English is genuine and he does nothing to hide it. He’s cozing without a hint of the supercilious; capricious attitude he is well known to have.  
Bending down, he riffles through my guitar case on the floor and picks up the bow, testing a thumb against the strings. 

“ It’s very taut. I didn’t think it would need to be strung so tightly. It’s not a normal violin bow, is it?” He murmurs almost to himself before he plugs a few frays off the lower end, clearly well versed with stringed instruments. Looking at me from under his immaculate fringe he gives me a mischievous smile. “Have you had the time to look at the composition?” I nod, putting a fingertip on a part I especially like. 

“ This part here could be a bit tricky- it could be hm..more arpeggio. We should overdub it once or twice to get it right.” I sound excited. And I am. We start messing around with the cadences, humming and playing. Trying out how it could be played best and just as he’s noticing the Tele and the small circular mirrors I glued to it’s body for showy psychedelic effects-I had seen it on Syd Barrets guitar a while ago- one of the secretaries pops in to bring him a cup of tea, trying very hard not to stare at him; the golden head bent over my guitar, his neck tanned even where his hair softly parts. Brian doesn’t even look up, just says loftily “ Thank you, dear!”as he’s holding his hand out for the mug.  
The girl presses it into his hand, looking disappointed but chirps: “OH but you are welcome. Very welcome actually.” before she disappears. 

Brian sniggers as he blows into his teacup “ Honestly, I have 3 girls on every finger. All squeals and calculating doe eyes. It’s so ... exasperating.” I nod, confused about this comment. 

We get on with the work. He brings over his guitar, a white Vox, the famous teardrop shape fitting perfectly in his arms, the thin neck accommodating to his small hands. He fishes a worn harmonica from his pocket and tunes the guitar with it while I watch and try not to think about the suggestive connotation. If I ever have my own band I want a singer who can play the harp. Maybe simply because I love to watch that. I heard Brian taught his singer how to play it. And, Gosh, Jagger is really good by now.  
We fiddle around, then plug in, switch on and play through the songs together. I pencil notes into my sheet and moon a bit over the nifty volume pedal Brian has for his Vox. He conjures loud gun shot noises out of it and laughs when he sees me flinch and jump. In reply I tease him with accusing whines from my guitar with the bow. It’s horsing around, very unprofessional and yet the most fun I ever had on paid studio time. We pop over to the recording booth and listen to the several instrumental tracks that have already been recorded yesterday without either one of us. He looks happy and slightly dishevelled with the headphones on when we do the first few takes. Playing together with another lead guitarist comes naturally with him, I can feel he is used to weave his play around Keiths guitar to add depth and lightness to the melody. He gives very subtle timing cues by pointed looks and pleased grins. It’s not the fight I have with the Yardbirds. It works as a “together”. But it’s a lead that’s used to have others follow. His eyes sparkle every time I look over to see how he plays this riff to find him looking at me playing mine. If I wouldn’t know Brian has this boring German bird at home that always makes eyes at Keith I’d assume he is flirting with me. In the late afternoon, just when I notice I have not seen anyone around for a while his roadie walks in to bring us sandwiches and chips. Brian asks for tea like the French queen for cake, his quiet voice dripping with haught; the spoiled rockstar showing behind his flawlessly mannered charms for a brief moment. I smile to myself thinking how he must drive people insane with this flippant, calculating attitude of hot and cold. 

And just as I come to terms with the fact that I apparently have a thing for blondes no matter of which sex there is a commotion outside our Studio 3. Doors banging, yelling, hasty footfalls up and down the quiet hallway. Brian shakes his hair out of his face and raises his left eyebrow with a downright dirty twinkle in his eyes. He looks absolutely like the tweety bird that just caught the cat.  
Voices call back and forth, outside, the door bangs open to reveal a fuming Mick Jagger. I met him and Keith in Birmingham a few months ago at some Blues festival where we all wanted to see John Lee Hooker.They were both very polite- if you wouldn’t have known about the Stones you could have taken them for the nice, blues loving, upper middle class grammar school boys they used to be. We ended up at some record collectors house for a bit of after-show knees-up. Back then I had to admit to myself that there is good reason why girls (and boys) all around the world cream their knickers over them, both. Micks boisterous heartthrob allure is as impossible to ignore as is Keiths thoughtful, sassy aloofness that flips to hard drinking party boy in the blink of an eye. It was a great night. I was hungover for about 2 days. 

“ Ahhrg! I bloody knew it!” Mick gasps, out of breath as he’s marching into the studio as if it were his bedroom, eyeing me in utter disdain. Behind him I see Keith sliding past the open door, unable to stop fast enough on slippery leather soles. He holds on to the doorframe and pulls himself back into the picture to look at Micks back in annoyed despair. 

“ Mick, don’t… oh Goddamn! Please don’t do this again!” Keith pleads from the doorstep. 

Brian doesn’t move or say a word, just looks at the drama unfolding in front of him with obvious delight. Mick towers over Brians and my chairs, looking down on us trying to decide whom to address first.

“You!” He finally makes up his mind, picking me.” Stupid little tart! Get the fack outta here!” he snaps. Gone the London Cockney accent, vocabulary apparently still the same. 

Hidherto I have never been called tart but before I can decide if that’s a compliment or an insult, Mick grabs me by the collar and hauls me to my feet, his nose almost touching mine. He glares at me. This close up he is even more gorgeous. Huge almost aquamarine-blue eyes, wide and blazing with fury, his caramel-coloured hair framing his face in soft waves that curl into the open collar of his dark blue jumper. His lovely lips pulled into a pout that would do awful things to most peoples ability to breathe easy.  
Temperamental people always amuse me but his long lean body close enough to mine that I can feel the heat of his skin under his clothes speeds my heart up quite a little bit as well. Meanwhile Brian got up. Micks eyes flick over to him as he’s stepping closer; directly to Micks side who’s still holding me by the scruff. They stare into each others eyes for a few seconds that feel very long as they turn into a minute. Then two. Keith groans from the doorstep, crossing his arms to lean against the frame patiently waiting. I hang in on there to see what will happen. Mick drops me and pushes me over to the door without taking his eyes away from Brians. 

“ Pardon Jimmy, if you’d excuse us for a minute.. I gather Michael here has some problem that requires my immediate attention.” Brian apologises smoothly. The expression on his face wicked, focussed and slightly frightening. I think about reaching for my jacket but Keith grabs me by the wrist and drags me out of the room slamming the heavy door behind us. We exchange a bewildered look. Every door in the empty hallway up to Studio 3 is open. 

Keith shrugs: “ Leave them to it. It’s always the same ordeal. Do you think I can get something to drink here ? I am so thirsty… we ran half the way over here from Mayfair.” 

There is a fridge with all sorts of beverages in Studio 3’s recording booth. We march into the spacious room, decorated with golden records, 2341 cables and headphones neatly lined up on racks. Keith plonks himself in the bouncy sound engineers chair in front of the mixer. I bring over two cold bottles of coke that he slaps open with the edge of his hand on the corner of the table. Taking the chair next to him I look at the two boys in the other room through the big glass panel. The mic lines to the studio are still open and I hear Mick whisper “ Brian, Please!” through the speakers before Keith flips the volume controller off. We drink our coke and watch.

Brian gently puts my teacup- that he was about to take a sip from when Mick stormed in- on the amp to his left, steps back and backhands his singer twice hard enough to snap the boys head back and forth with swaying hair. Next to me Keith huffs and hides his face in his hands. Mick wipes his hair out of his face, licks his lips and closes the space between them with a feline step, their bodies only parted by a whisker. He whispers something and swoops his eyes down and up again Brians body, their lips almost touching. It’s as much a deliberate provocation as a rather daring come-on; all things considered.

“Bizarre band dynamics you guys have.” I say after a while. 

“ AhShucks!! Nono, you misunderstand that… that’s..we…. For fun.” Keith pats himself down for a smoke.“ He taunted him all of last week. Told him how he got little Jimmy Page for the soundtrack. Sang your song to him… whatsthe name of that single again… something vaguely dirty, alright? Swooned about your guitar and the bow. Neat little trick that, by the way.”

“ Well, thanks, I am still working on it. Do they know we can see them?” I take the cigarette he offers me, in his other hand a lovely Dupont lighter with blue inlays. 

“Of course. That’s half the ball.” Brian steps back to sink down into the chair behind him, taking Mick down with himself by the collar of his jumper. His smile now a twisted victorious thing of desire and challenge as Mick follows oh so willingly; sliding to his knees between Brians spread thighs.  
Keith lights his cigarette. Leans in to offer the flame to me.

“ I don’t understand, he just slapped him and now they are near snogging… are they..are they shagging?” Exhaling a plume of smoke between us I watch Keith roll his eyes at my question.

“ Eventually. It’s all just theatrics, Little Jimmy. Mick is just too easily roused. His jealous scenes are legendary.”

“ Jealous!? …but I won’t take …he knows I am not a singer, yeah? He can’t possibly think.. That single- it was just a drunk bet with Keith Moon. He played the drums because he can’t sing for his life so I did everything else.” Why am I explaining, what I trying to apologise for? 

“ Well, I know that and Brian knows that. But Mick doesn’t. He thinks Brian’s gonna replace him with some other singer any time. He tells him so every second day when they disagree about a note or three.”

“ He’s half a head taller than Brian..why didn’t he ..” My question trails away as I watch Mick put his hands on Brians thighs and shimmy closer on his knees. His eyes never leaving Brians face. “I mean no please don’t tell me. I am certain I don’t want to know…“ I interrupt myself again as Keith’s head swivels around to appraise me curiously. I totally want to know but wouldn’t dream of admitting that.

“ It’s not about physical force..it’s about control. How can you still be so clueless, little Jimmy?” I can’t believe Keith Richards sniggers at me.” Don’t you play in a band with Jeff and Keith? One would assume you know how this works. I mean… did they never take you to one of their after-parties?” 

Great, now I wonder what I have been missing all the time when I went to nightclubs, drinking champagne from juice glasses and chasing beehived American groupies who’d fawn over my accent and squeal a lot when I touch them. Keith takes another drag from his cigarette and grins. 

“ So, do you wanna go for a pint to Worlds End or do you wanna stay and…watch some more?” 

I absolutely want to stay and watch some more but a beer is a splendid idea and Keith seems bored with the show Brian and Mick are putting on behind the soundproof glass. Brian has two fingers in Micks mouth and is unbuttoning his trousers with his other hand. He is talking to him and Mick narrows his eyes at him like a cat when you scratch it's back. His hands are still on Brians thighs, rubbing them impatiently as if he is not allowed to touch the other who brought him to his knees on a studio floor in clear view of anyone who’d wander into the recording room to have a chat with Keith and me loitering about. As we get up I see Brian wrench Mick closer by his hair, his ankles hooking together behind Micks legs, holding him in place, bending him backwards to kiss him deeply and hungrily, like he tastes irresistible. Like his mouth is a drug he cant get enough of. Their lips part so Brian can swipe the boys jumper off to reveal a thin white t-shirt, monogrammed with Brians initials above and the heart. Micks hands flutter all over Brian, petting his hair, caressing his face, tugging him close to kiss his neck, nip his collarbone. Brians left hand drops into Micks open trousers, slowly stroking him while his other hand holds his head steady; ordering him to look at him. And I don’t even need to hear them to understand that order. 

Keith, already at the door, turns around for me, “Curious, little Jimmy?” he taunts, clearly neither bothered nor scandalised by the notion. 

“ Me .. Oh no I was just wondering where my jacket is.” I lie without blushing even tough I am sure Keith sees through it without difficulties.

” It’s April in London, Dear. Come on!” He replies while pulling me out into the hallway.” I’ll buy you a drink to warm you up.” 

We pass Studio 3 and I hear a distinct moan, hard to say whose. On the way down the hallway, Keith kicks the doors shut that Mick ripped open in the frenzied search for Brian and his presumed latest fancy.

**Author's Note:**

> The event I am writing about took place IRL in April 1966 when freshly appointed YardbirdJimmy was booked to play on Brian Jones solo project -the soundtrack of the rather great German movie A Degree of Murder. I explain more, show the photo proof and offer links on my Tumblr right here:  
> [Jimmy And Brian in Studio Together](https://sacramentogirl23.tumblr.com/post/633520430290010112/jimmy-in-studio-with-brian-jones-1966-during-the)
> 
>   
> I adore Brian very much. He was a genius in so many ways (especially slide guitar&harmonica) but basically every instrument he wanted to play; had the most lovely singing voice, very certainly he was the founder of the Stones, very well-read and clever, charming and handsome,,mind-blowingly stylish- the original British Hippie Prince, wild boy, lady killer deluxe (he has I think 6!! children-all boys) but he was also not perfect; didn't care about his children or their mothers, liked to roughhouse his girlfriends and of course was doomed once he discovered drugs.  
> I thought that it should be said that I am not making him look bad for the sake of the story. At least here its a play and no one was seriously hurt-fun was had by all.


End file.
